


Away to the Watchtower

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Has Issues, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce has a potty mouth, Can't do stiches on your face without flesh-toned thread to hide the injury, Flesh-toned thread is important, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Other, bad language, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 22:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15229413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Bruce gets hurt and Alfred isn't there, actually, nobody is. Bruce is lonely, but also (and more importantly) out of flesh-toned thread to stitch his face with. Because Bruce Wayne must look smooth at all times, and can't have face scars. So he has to go to the Watchtower Infirmary, where he runs into Superman.





	Away to the Watchtower

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does. I feel like Bruce would be extra enough to invest in flesh-toned thread for stiches in visible areas. Also, I like the idea of Batman having a labeled box of medical supplies, all for himself, in the Watchtower.

It wasn’t often that Batman felt lonely, but it did happen. Right now, for instance, he was lonely. Alfred was gone for the week and Dick was in Bludhaven. The manor hadn’t felt so big and empty since he was a young boy. Bruce tried to ignore his feelings but they were there anyway. As he pulled into the cave, it was with a pang that he realized that there would be no one to sarcastically remind him to be more careful while they stitched up his (minor) wounds. It was also with a pang, this time of annoyance, that he realized that in the two days Alfred had been gone, he had already used the last of the flesh-toned thread. He cursed under his breath and quickly slapped a bandage over the slash on his cheek. It was important not to let the identity of Bruce Wayne be mixed in any way with that of Batman. So that was why he used flesh-toned thread for his stitches; it made them less noticeable. If they were noticed, which was rare— unless, he noted with annoyance, they were on his face, like right now— he could easily come up with a reasonable excuse. But he was out of thread. So, growling, and with a quickly suppressed sense of loneliness, Batman knew where he needed to go: The Justice League Watchtower. 

He knew that right now, around 2 a.m., the tower would be empty, except for J’ohn on monitor duty and whoever else was taking the graveyard shift or sleeping there— some members lived on the tower due to extenuating circumstances. But, Bruce knew that he would more than likely not encounter anyone on the tower, which was how he liked it. Not that he disliked his co-members of the JLA per se, but they did not quite understand him, and he did not understand them much of the time; he kept to himself and knew the importance of making sure a plan was solid before acting, whereas some of his fellow leaguers tended to rush in half-assed or worse. But despite the hour, Bruce knew there was still the possibility that he would encounter someone, and he didn’t really feel like talking to anybody— being alone always made him more self-sensing than usual and as anyone who knew him would say, Bruce was his own worst enemy. 

He decided to take the jet. He needed to test the new engine anyway. 

Flying into orbit takes time, so it was a little past four a.m. when Bruce landed in the hangar and the air lock sealed. Suppressing a yawn, both because Batman would never show weakness and because it damn well hurt with the gash on his cheek, Bruce swiftly and silently strode down the hall toward the infirmary where he knew there was flesh-colored thread because he’d stocked it himself in a cabinet labeled, ‘BATMAN.’ 

Thankfully his journey was unimpeded by anyone else, so he was quickly able to gather the necessary supplies and begin stitching. He cursed as he jabbed himself unnecessarily in the cheek for the fifth time; he hated face wounds. In fact, the only thing he hated more than face wounds was getting stitches for them, especially when he had to stand at an awkward angle to see them while he stitched himself up. After allowing himself one tired, frustrated sigh, Bruce resumed stitching. 

As the needle slipped again, Bruce growled in a way that would have made grown criminals weep and said some words that would have shocked even the Joker into silence. “Are you alright, Bruce?” asked a voice right behind him. Bruce jumped about a foot in the air and swore again as he felt a little blood ooze out of his in-progress stitching where the surprise had caused him to jerk the stitching tight. 

“God damnit, Clark. What do you want?” he barked, inspecting the stitches to make sure he hadn’t torn them and ruined his work. Clark frowned. Probably hurt the boy scout’s feelings, Bruce though unkindly. Superman came to stand by Batman’s side and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. His eyes roved over Bruce’s face and he could practically feel the x-ray vision at work. Bruce shoved Superman’s hand off his shoulder and tensed. 

“Stop x-raying me, Clark! I’m fine. Now, what do you want?” he asked testily. Superman frowned and stepped closer to Bruce, who resumed stitching. 

“I was hungry, so I came in here to get one of those protein shake things, the chocolate kind I like. But what are you doing here, Bruce? Can’t Alfred stitch that up for you?” he asked gently. Bruce frowned, which caused him to suck in a sharp breath— that hurt like a motherfucker. Clark noticed, because he started hovering again, literally. Damn alien. 

“Alfred isn’t here right now. I told him to take a vacation. He hasn’t had one in years. And before you ask, Dick is still in Bludhaven. I’m fine, Superman. I’ve stitched myself up before,” Batman growled coldly. Clark frowned, looking upset. 

“You’re all alone? Bruce, why didn’t you call me? And stop that,” Clark grabbed his hand that held the needle gently and removed it, “I know that’s hurting you. Let me do it.” Bruce growled again and tried to escape Superman’s grasp to resume his work, but Clark held firm. Suddenly, Superman felt Batman stop resisting. It was approximately 5 a.m. now and even Batman did not usually stay up that late, or early depending on how one viewed it. He was damn tired and maybe, just maybe, that little part of him that was lonely was glad for the company. 

“Fine, Superman. You can stitch me up. But, so help me god, if you screw up I’ll get out the kryptonite. Bruce Wayne cannot have an obvious scar on his face,” Bruce said firmly. Clark nodded and began dragging Bruce to the nearest bed. Bruce suppressed a sigh of annoyance. But he held his tongue— the sooner this was over, the better. He sat petulantly on the edge of the bed until Clark looked at him in a way that said, ‘nice try.’ Wordlessly, Superman patted the pillows and Bruce scooted back until he was leaned against them. Superman picked up the needle and began stitching while he talked. 

“Why do you insist on being so stubborn, Bruce? We all care about you, and it wouldn’t kill you to ask your teammates for help occasionally,” he said gently, but firmly. At a particularly sharp tug, Bruce winced. Clark paused. Then he peered more closely at Batman. “You didn’t take any pain medicine, did you?” he asked with a sigh. Bruce crossed his arms. 

“No, of course not. I need to be clear-headed at all times. You know that, Clark,” he said. 

Clark stopped stitching and ambled over to the medicine cabinet saying, “Well not this time, Bruce. I won’t let you bully yourself tonight— er, this morning. You’re taking this.” He handed Bruce two small pills and a glass of water. Bruce glared at him but complied— when Superman was determined, there was almost nothing that would stop him. And despite everything, Bruce wanted to get home. 

As Superman silently finished up his stitching, the sharp pain from being stabbed by a needle and the dull throb of torn skin subsided. Against his will, Bruce relaxed into the pillows behind him and felt his breathing evening out. He blinked heavily. “I’m going to sanitize these, Bruce,” Clark warned. Bruce smelled rubbing alcohol and there was a very minute stinging sensation where his fresh stitches were. Soon enough though, it subsided as Clark gently placed a bandage over the stitches. Clark busied himself with cleaning the supplies and sanitizing the room, so he wasn’t helping Bruce fight unconsciousness. 

Batman yawned against his will and felt his eyes drooping. Occasionally his head would fall against his chest and the motion would jerk him awake again. He sensed Clark hovering by his side, about ready to pick him up and carry him. “Don’t even think about it, Clark. If you pick me up I will kill you. Slowly,” he mumbled. Although he wasn’t sure if it came out right, seeing how Clark smiled at him indulgently. Bruce frowned— some would say pouted, even. 

“Alright, alright! I won’t carry you, Mr. Grumpy Bat,” Clark said, snickering. 

Bruce stood unsteadily and slurred, “You’re only saying that because you think I won’t remember later. Damn drugs. But— but the jokes on you, Clark. I’ve got a photographic memory. Ha!” He stumbled forward, heading for the door before Superman swooped in. 

“Lean on me, Bruce,” he said. Bruce complied, and the pair made their slow way down the hall. Just around the corner from his own room, Batman finally lost the fight with unconsciousness, and sleep claimed him. Clark picked him up and flew him into his room. 

After some thought, and use of x-ray vision, Clark figured out how to take the suit off. He folded it up neatly in a pile and left it on top of Batman’s desk. Then he tucked the snoring Bat into bed and turned out the lights. He shut the door and retreated, yawing, to his own room. 

Much later that day, around 11 a.m., Bruce Wayne stirred from deep slumber. Once side of his face hurt, like he’d gotten stitches and he knew immediately that he wasn’t in his own master bedroom. He sat up, feeling the bandage on the side of his face. His first though was that he was in the hospital, but then he glanced around the room and saw the Bat suit and it clicked. He was still on the Watchtower. And, although his memory was hazy, he remembered Clark being involved and that he was supposed to pay him back for something— even if he couldn’t remember just what that was. 

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door and before Bruce could tell the person knocking to go away, a cheerful Clark Kent came into the room, holding two mugs of coffee. “How are you feeling, Bruce?” he asked. Bruce scowled, not liking the intrusion into his personal space. 

“Fine. Is one of those for me?” he asked, eyeing the coffee. Clark smiled and handed him the blue mug. Bruce was pleasantly surprised to see that Clark had gotten him black coffee, unlike the sugary monstrosity that Clark himself drank. With a nod, he took the first sip and Clark sat on the edge of his bed. Bruce raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. 

“You planning to stick around at all?” Clark asked casually. Bruce rolled his eyes and took another sip of coffee. 

“No,” he responded. Then, as Clark was reaching for yet another sugar packet, Bruce intercepted his hand and poured it into his own coffee. Although it turned his own drink sickly sweet, it was worth the flash of annoyance he saw on Clark’s face. 

“What was that for?” he asked. Although Bruce still wasn’t sure what Clark had said to him that needed vengeance, Bruce knew he could say one thing that Clark would believe. 

“Photographic memory, remember?” he said, smirking. Clark flushed a little but laughed after a few seconds. 

“It was worth it,” he said. 

“Right,” Bruce said sarcastically, wishing he knew what ‘it’ was. He took another drink of his coffee and grimaced. Well, no one ever said revenge was a drink best served sweet…


End file.
